


A Gentleman's Stroke

by InsaneRedDragon



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Pool & Billiards, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-04
Updated: 2017-03-04
Packaged: 2018-09-27 23:51:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10057568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsaneRedDragon/pseuds/InsaneRedDragon
Summary: He’s been in this room dozens of times since his introduction to Kingsman two years ago. First as a candidate learning advanced skills for billiards, and later as a knight, playing friendly (and perhaps not so friendly, on occasion) games of pool with the other knights and staff. He’s met, played, and generally beaten what he thought to be all the other interested pool players at HQ. But today is the first time he’s seen the man currently at the far table who appears to be crushing Tristan.--For the prompt: Imagine Harry and Merlin both working at Kingsman but not having met yet, and surely there is a pool table at the manor, and them taking a break at the same time and getting in a kind of friendly competition filled with UST.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elletromil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elletromil/gifts).



> This prompt is based on [this picture](http://insanereddragon.tumblr.com/post/150861051259/elletromil-insanereddragon-oh-my-bloody) by wenquanzhu.
> 
> In this fic, Merlin is brand new to the organization and is just a tech. His name is Alistair. Any references to Merlin refer to the previous Merlin.
> 
> Also, to clarify, they are playing what is referred to as [blackball](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blackball_\(pool\)) \- a british version of standard American 8-ball, where instead of solids and stripes the balls are red and yellow (or blue and yellow).

**stroke: _/strōk/_**

  1. The motion of the cue stick and the player’s arm on a shot;
  2. The strength, fluidity and finesse of a player’s shooting technique; “she has a good stroke.”
  3. A combination of finesse, good judgement, accuracy and confidence.



 

He’s been in this room dozens of times since his introduction to Kingsman two years ago. First as a candidate learning advanced skills for billiards, and later as a knight, playing friendly (and perhaps not so friendly, on occasion) games of pool with the other knights and staff. He’s met, played, and generally beaten what he thought to be all the other interested pool players at HQ. But today is the first time he’s seen the man currently at the far table who appears to be crushing Tristan.

There are several other people in the room; a pair playing at the other table, and the rest watching Tristan’s game unfold. Harry slips just inside the arched doorway and tucks his hands loosely in his trouser pockets. From the looks on the other faces, this is not the first time the new man has beaten the knight today.

As Harry watches, Tristan leans over and takes his shot. The cue ball bounces off the side and rolls straight into the pocket.

“Bloody hell!” Tristan stands up and scrubs his hand through the hair at the nape of his neck. “It seems fairly obvious I don’t stand a chance now. Well come on then, Alistair. Finish it.”

The man, Alistair, stands up straight from the bookshelf he was leaning against. He surveys the table as he steps around it, until he finds the angle he’s looking for and leans over to line up the shot.

As Alistair studies the table, Harry studies him. He’s young, maybe a few years younger than himself, but he has an air about him that Harry hasn’t encountered often. Least of all from men his age. The others in the room already seem to have some level of respect for the man. He wonders what he does in the mansion when he’s not beating knights at billiards.

Surprisingly, Alistair’s bald. An unusual choice considering the kind of men that walk the halls of Kingsman - rich, snobby, and with entirely too much vanity. But it works for him, somehow accenting his suit which has been tailored perfectly, like they are for all members of Kingsman (albeit only the Knights get ones that are bullet proof). The grey trousers and blue waistcoat hug his frame, and as he takes his shot Harry is given a splendid view of his arse.

The cue ball hits one of the blue balls, which in turn taps another. Both balls roll around either side of the yellow ball blocking them and then continue leisurely into separate pockets. Quick and efficient, Alistair rounds the table and takes the final shot. As the 8-ball rolls into the pocket, a light wave of applause comes from the rest of the room. All around, it was an elegant set of shots and Harry can’t help but be impressed. He finds himself clapping along.

Tristan holds his hand over the table, and Alistair reaches out to take it. As he does, his cuff rides high on his long arm, and Harry takes note of the blue and green ink now visible on his forearm. Before he can get a clear look at the tattoo, the men pull their hands back and Alistair tugs his cuff back into place. It’s another intriguing aspect of this new man, and Harry’s curiosity insists he find out more about him.

Harry stands to the side as the room starts to clear out. One of the techs claps Tristan on the back and they wander out of the room in the direction of his office, Tristan looking put out but chuckling ruefully. Harry waits a moment, watching Alistair slip on his jacket and start pulling balls from their pockets to be racked. When the room is nearly empty, with only a couple of support staff left deep in conversation, Harry straightens his jacket and approaches.

He stops at the edge of the table, hip cocked to rest against the side. “You’re new.”

Alistair looks up from where he’s set a ball and quirks his eyebrow. “The handlers warned me that some of the knights were prone to stating the obvious, but I hadn’t expected to be accosted with it so soon. Aye, I’m new. I only started yesterday.”

“And already you’ve managed to humble Tristan. Although that admittedly doesn’t take much effort.” Alistair chuckles and the sound is warm and rich. Harry smiles widely in return. Reaching his hand out across the table, he continues. “Harry Hart, otherwise known as Galahad.”

“Alistair Grey.” Alistair takes Harry’s hand into a firm shake. His hand is warm and soft, Harry notes, and his long fingers brush against his wrist when they pull away. Harry wonders what those fingers would feel like elsewhere.

“How did you know I was a knight?”

“Ye aren’t the only one around here with keen observational skills.” He gives Harry an exaggerated once over, making a point of cocking his head and inspecting every inch. Harry barely suppresses a shiver as he does. “The tailors do a splendid job of hiding the gun and holster. I’d never know it was there. But to someone recruited for their aptitude with technology, yer accessories were a dead giveaway.” 

Alistair steps around the table and closer to Harry. He tilts his head in question, and Harry stands up straight and spreads his arms, palms out, curious. Alistair is just a fraction too close for propriety as he starts pointing and listing the hidden tech that Harry is currently wearing. 

“Glasses. Watch. Shoes.” He steps closer still to nudge the toe of Harry’s oxford with his own. Harry gets a faint whiff of his cologne and it ignites a heat low in his gut. “Signet ring and cufflinks were dead giveaways.”

When he steps back, there’s a challenge in Alistair’s expression, and Harry thinks that it suits him. Harry’s never been one to back down from a challenge, so he returns the look with one of his own as he carefully unbuttons his jacket. Alistair arches his eyebrow and his eyes grow dark as he leans back against the table and watches Harry. He removes his jacket and drapes it carefully over a nearby chair before turning to Alistair with his thumb tucked into the pocket of his waistcoat. 

“I’m afraid you missed one. Granted, Merlin has only recently decided to tinker with the design. A sturdy belt has a multitude of uses, even before the techs get a hold of it.” His finger taps out  _ WANT TO SEE  _ in Morse code against the leather at his waist as he talks.

Alistair responds by tapping  _ SHAMELESS _ on the polished mahogany where his hand rests and Harry laughs in surprise. “I’ll have to have a chat with Merlin then. I’m sure I’ve got a few ideas they haven’t thought to try yet,” Alistair says.

Harry smirks and makes the decision to get this man into his bed. He briefly considers asking Alistair if he’d care to join him at home this evening, but decides against it. He's particularly fond of the chase and he doesn’t need to be a spy to tell that Alistair feels the same.

“You seem to have a very high opinion of your skills.” As Harry speaks, he moves over to lean his hip against the table, a scant few millimeters from where Alistair’s fingers lay.

“Modesty only slows things down. But that doesn’t mean ye’ll hear me showboating either. An accurate picture of my skills is much more efficient for everyone.” Alistair looks at Harry from the corner of his eye. “Not exactly the  _ gentlemanly  _ behaviour I’ve heard pervades the table, but ye’ll be thankful I didn’t spend my time kissing arse when my tech saves yers in the field.”

“Well, I’ll have to take your word for it, at least when it comes to your job. But those aren’t the only skills to which I was referring.” Harry leans around him, his shoulder brushing against Alistair’s chest as he reaches for the cue that lays across the table. His skin tingles under his shirt where it touches Alistair. Harry wishes for the first time that a Kingsman didn’t wear so many layers.

When he straightens, he looks at Alistair’s face and smiles at the faint flush he sees there. “Care to join me for a game? I think you’ll find I’m not as easy as Tristan is.”

Harry tracks Alistair’s tongue as he wets his lips. “Why not,” Alistair says. “Perhaps ye’ll appreciate my skills better if ye experience them first hand.”

He doesn’t break eye contact as Alistair carefully removes his jacket. But when Alistair turns to lay it on top of Harry’s, he takes in the wide expanse of Alistair’s shoulders and his never ending arms. Harry has always had something of a fixation with the male back. The way the muscles move and flex just underneath the skin when he’s fully sheathed inside them. Hips rocking slowly and hands gripping tightly. He wonders what Alistair’s back would look like under the same treatment.

As Alistair goes back to racking the balls, his sleeve slides up his arm and Harry catches another glimpse of the green and blue tendrils that curl around his forearm. This time he gets a better look and he recognizes the edge of a feather. It compliments his waistcoat and the balls on the table. Harry thinks that shade of blue is quickly becoming his favourite color.

“Wait.”

Alistair stops and looks up from the table. His hand is resting on one of the yellow balls, and Harry reaches out to take it. He slips it from under Alistair’s hand and feels a crackle of electricity where their fingers touch.

“I’m assuming you’d prefer to play blue.” Alistair nods. “Then if you’re amenable, I’d like to play red.” Harry walks around the side of the table to the cabinet where the spare balls are stored and trades the yellow ball in his hand for a red one.

Alistair pointedly looks at the vibrant red of Harry’s waistcoat and arches his eyebrow. “Careful, Galahad, yer vanity’s showing,” Alistair retorts. He taps out PEACOCK against the felt and Harry makes a put upon face that is ruined by the appreciative glint in his eye.

They don’t speak again, quickly replacing and racking the balls. It’s not a complicated task, but they still complete it with an ease that feels practiced. Alistair passes yellow balls to Harry two at a time; Harry takes them in one hand and replaces them with red ones from his other. Their fingers brush more often than not, and Harry is getting used to how Alistair's skin feels under his fingertips.

When the table is set, Alistair nods at Harry and picks up his cue. “Ye can break if ye like.”

Without preamble, Harry leans over and lines up his shot. He knows the sight he makes, his trousers making his legs look longer, his waistcoat riding up ever so slightly to draw the eye to the thin fabric covering the small of his back. He takes a moment longer than he needs to before he hits the cue ball, enjoying the heat of Alistair’s stare from where he looks on.

The clack of balls as they hit each other is loud in the otherwise silent room. The stragglers from earlier have gone, and Harry is loath to admit he doesn’t know when, Alistair enough of a distraction to have him stop paying attention to the others in the room. They are the only ones left and it seems to intensify the growing electricity between them.

The balls roll to a stop and Harry straightens. He points with his cue to the side pocket, where he’s potted one of the red balls. “Red then,” he says with a smirk. He eyes the table and begins to talk as he considers his next shot.

“So how is it you were recruited into our ranks?” Harry asks. His shot bounces off the side and taps one of the red balls gently. It would have been easy to sink, but it’s more interesting to draw out the game and see exactly what Alistair chooses to do.

Alistair stares at the table and considers Harry’s shot. “I was four years in with the Royal Marines - combat intelligence, information systems, part of the Information Exploitation Group - working to improve their comms, when I heard GCHQ was asking around about me. Apparently Kingsman heard about it too, and decided to approach me first.” 

He makes a decision and circles the table, leaning over for his shot. Harry’s gaze is drawn to the sharp angles of Alistair’s face. The light over the table casts shadows around his eyes, and Harry wants the intense gaze he’s giving the table to be turned on himself. He’d bet money that as a lover in his bed, Alistair would put him under the same scrutiny and handle him with the same precision, and Harry feels his interest grow.

“Merlin approached me personally with a whole speech about spies and gadgets. I take it that works on most of ye.” The balls clack around the table as Alistair takes the shot, a blue one falling into the side pocket, and Harry hums his agreement.

“Of course. Well, I told Merlin I needed a week to decide and then went to GCHQ to see what they were willing to counter offer. When Merlin found out, he wasn’t too pleased at the idea they might find a better way to woo me. He and the Director had something of a pissing contest. It’s clear who came out on top of that one.”

Alistair sinks another ball and then makes a shot that leaves Harry’s balls all strategically blocked. He stands up straight and sets the butt of his cue to rest against the floor. “Yer shot, Galahad.”

Harry looks at Alistair with a newfound appreciation. “You’ve surprised me. I wasn’t expecting a Marine.”

He considers the muscles that must be hidden underneath Alistair’s shirt. Before he can think better of it, Harry presses his hand to the small of Alistair’s back as he slowly rounds the table to get to the cue ball. He feels the quick tensing and relaxing of the muscles under his fingers as Alistair presses back into Harry’s hand like a cat. The heat lingers on his skin when he pulls his hand away.

Alistair clears his throat before he continues. “Aye, understandable. The techs I’ve met so far have come from strictly academic backgrounds. It’s about time they recruited someone that can keep up with the rest of ye lot.”

Harry takes his shot, curving around Alistair’s ball to pot his in the corner. “Then perhaps next time you’d be interested in matching our skills on the sparring mats. One of my specialties is close quarters, and I assure you, others have found my hands hard to keep up with.”

He leans over the table and lines up his shot, and looks up to Alistair as his cue slides through his fingers on the follow-through. Alistair’s eyes are dark, and Harry watches the line of his throat as he swallows and nods his head.

Standing up, Harry smiles hungrily before looking down at the table. It takes him a moment before he realizes that he has utterly missed his shot, and instead has scratched the ball. He lets out a self depreciating laugh, but isn’t sure he can be too upset with himself when he catches Alistair discretely adjusting himself in his trousers.

The rest of the game passes in something of a blur. They don’t speak again, but the air is thick with the electricity between them. Harry feels it zing through his body every time their hands or shoulders brush against each other. At one point Alistair bends down to pick up some fallen chalk and Harry has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from making a noise at the sight of Alistair’s trousers pulled tight to his arse.

It is by far one of the worst games Harry has ever played, but the same must be the case for Alistair because he doesn’t just take the win. Somehow it feels like it lasts for hours and yet is over far too quickly. 

Harry watches with some regret as Alistair sinks the 8-ball. As the cue ball comes to a stop, Harry looks across the table. There is a faint flush running down Alistair’s throat, and at some point during the game he’d hastily rolled up his sleeves. Harry’s gaze lingers on his forearms and the swirling peacock tattoo.

“Well, I know when I’ve been bested,” Harry says, forcing his eyes to meet Alistair’s. “Your confidence in your skills, at least billiards, seems to be well placed. But I still reserve the right to assess the others first hand.”

He sets his cue down and walks around the table, hand extended. When Alistair takes it, Harry doesn’t hesitate to step closer and bring up his other hand to cradle his arm. He looks down as he runs his thumb along the lines of the feathers.

“And you called me a peacock,” Harry says quietly.

“Aye, I think ye are. But maybe I have an appreciation for them.”

Harry can’t help but smile at the implication. “I was serious earlier, about sparring with you. Maybe then you’ll have something else to appreciate.”

Harry lets his desire color his expression as he locks eyes with Alistair. He lets go of Alistair’s hand and moves his own to rest on top of the tattoo. With great care he taps out INTERESTED against the eye of one of the feathers.

Alistair grips Harry’s arm and leans close to whisper against the shell of Harry’s ear. “Desperately.”

Harry doesn’t bother suppressing his shudder at the word. 

He’s just turning his head to close the space between their lips, the chase be damned, when Alistair suddenly straightens and takes a step back. Harry’s confused at first, until he sees Alistair reach up to tap the side of his glasses.

“Aye, Merlin?”

Harry turns away in an attempt to give the man some privacy and heads over to the chair where his jacket is lying. He tries not to think too hard about the arousal churning low in his gut and how he’s going to have to wait until he’s safely back home this evening to do anything about it. He considers briefly utilizing his office for a bit of relief, but dismisses the idea. He’s not a teenager anymore, certainly he can wait a few more hours.

Harry has his jacket on and put himself back to sorts when he hears Alistair come up behind him.

“I’m afraid I’m needed back in the lab. Can I take you up on that challenge another day?” The words are said so close to him, Harry can feel Alistair’s breath on his neck.

“Of course.” Harry grabs Alistair’s jacket and turns around to offer it to the man. When their fingers brush, Harry takes hold of his hand under the jacket. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Alistair. I look forward to seeing you again.”

“The feeling is mutual.” Alistair looks like he is going to say something more, but instead taps SOON against Harry’s palm before taking his jacket and stepping back. “Galahad,” he says, voice low and rough and promising, then walks away.

Harry's cock twitches and he decides he’s going to take an early day.

**Author's Note:**

> [Alistair’s tattoo](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/52/8d/13/528d132fe899e34272e9afa71b0c9624.jpg)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> (Yes, I know that you don’t normally wear a belt with a tailored suit - you’d wear braces/suspenders. But the Knights definitely don’t, presumably because of their holsters. So forgive my inaccuracies for the sake of a good story XD)


End file.
